THE PICTURED ROCKS.[14]

Earth hath her wondrous scenes—but few like this. Lo! how yon cliffs do spurn the swelling deep, Lifting their huge bare walls to middle heaven, As if they sought to reach it! On their front, Vast and unbroken, hangs no jutting crag Which beetling might arrest the weary eye, Or give a shelter to the shrieking bird That sought a resting place. The short gray moss Grows in their crevices—and here and there Some stunted shrub hangs midway from the top, Stretching its blighted branches in the air, Or scattering withered leaves. Their summits shoot Far upward to the sky—and sometimes there The eagle on his heavenward path will pause To rest his wearied wing, and gaze below Into the broad white lake, where snowy sails Swell in the summer breeze. But mortal foot Hath never climbed those heights. At their deep base The everlasting surge hath worn itself A pathway in the solid rock; and there, Far in those caverned chambers, where the warm Sweet sun-light enters not, is heard the war Of hidden waves, imprisoned tempests—bursting Anon like thunder, then with low deep moan Falling upon the ear—the mournful wail, As Indian legends say, of spirits accurst. There is a tale that once was current here, Which lent a wild and fearful interest To these stern rocks.—While yet the vales beyond Lay trackless by intruding stranger’s step, While the blithe savage in his untamed pride Roved the free woods, and dreamed not of the day When pale invaders should profane his home— An Indian maiden bloomed—among those tribes Renowned for loveliness. Her step was light As the young fawn’s; her dark bright eye spoke love, And youth, and happiness. Her fairy song Was first to greet the morning—first at eve Hailed with delight, when her young comrades left Their forest huts to dance in the green glade, Or pluck the wild flowers on the hillock sheen. She was beloved by rivals of her tribe, And for a season smiled alike on both. The one was bright and joyous as herself; He loved to bring her flowers—to snare with her The fish that sparkled in the silvery stream; To range the wood or shore, and rifle thence Some delicate feather, or some purple shell, To please a maiden’s fancy.—But his rival Bore a stern brow, a fierce unyielding soul. His was the skill to wield the hunter’s bow, Or the keen tomahawk. He trod the wood To wring some trophy of barbarian strength; To make its wide depths echo with the shriek Of slaughtered foes. His name was feared and hated Among the neighbouring tribes. The maid was proud That one so stern and terrible as he Should own her power—and though she loved him not, She still would smile and listen when he told His fierce exploits, and boasted deeds sublime. Time passed, and she grew weary of his gloom, And laughed to scorn his face of sullenness; And when at dusky eve his step was heard Approaching, she would quit her cottage home To shun his sight;—and seek the thicket’s shade To meet her gentler lover. One bright sun-set She waited for his coming. Hours passed on, And the gray twilight faded from the hills, And from the sheltered valley. Still he came not. She turned to seek her home—when at her side A figure stood, panting with breathless haste. ’Twas he, the dark browed youth. His eye was wild, Blood on his forehead—and his reeking weapon Of the same crimson hue. She shrunk aghast, For her fears told what blood had dyed that blade. With unresisted might he bore her thence, Fleet as the eagle, to the dusky shore. Ere she had power to shriek—to strive—to pray— She was upon the wide and silent waters Alone with him. The night was gathering fast, And as their bark shot onward, o’er them rose Those massive rocks, shadowy and stern as now— On whose bleak sides the winds swept tremulously, And the dark wave broke on the stormy barrier Foaming and furious. As they neared the cliff, The sky was black with clouds—and hopelessly The maiden struggled with her fearful foe. They touched the frowning rock.—He rose to moor His vessel to its side. A blasted bough, Sole remnant of the cedar’s giant pride, He caught—it fell—the billow urged them on, And high above the rushing waters’ moan Sounded her shriek—as o’er the dashing waves They entered that wild chasm. They were seen No more; nor when the sunny morn looked forth, Was trace e’er found of that ill-fated pair, The maiden and the murderer. Some have said That both soon perished in the cavern’s depths— Others, that still at midnight may be seen That bark with its dread tenants, gliding slow O’er the hushed wave! Yet—false or sooth the tale— No wandering peasant now at twilight’s hour, When silence hallows the pure lake’s repose, Or when the tempest with his wings of darkness Broods o’er the deep—will pass that fearful spot.